


Lovesick Mistake

by riverofyou



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst, Bandom - Freeform, M/M, Post-Split
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-11
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 08:48:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14281302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverofyou/pseuds/riverofyou
Summary: Years later, Brendon looks back at the mess that was their love. If you could call it that.





	Lovesick Mistake

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: this doesn't end happily.

Brendon hurts. He bleeds, and he misses.

He remembers.

Ryan Ross, his boy in blue, his one and only.

Brendon has never been particularly sentimental, but he loves to pour over the memories of the times with Ryan. He also hates it, hates it with a fiery, burning passion.

He loves and hates it, and he loves and hates Ryan. Sometimes, Brendon likes to think what they had was beyond understanding, beyond love and hate, beyond simple emotion. Him and Ryan were Gods, immortals, sheltered.

Then he laughs at the arrogance, because how pretentious can he get? That's not his specialty, not really. It's Ryan's, more than anything. They were humans, plain and simple. He thinks the fans, they forget that, sometimes. Ryan and Brendon are people. Brendon is capable of being broken. Ryan is too. The difference is only one of them can be broken by the other.

It's not that Brendon isn't happy, now. Because he is. Mostly. Except not really, because his hands shake when he realizes how alone he is, and he can't drink whiskey without thinking of the way Ryan's lips tasted when he lost inhibitions, lost control, then found Brendon. He can't squint his eyes without seeing Ryan there, haloed by glowing light, his stage makeup smudged, a smile (but more often, a frown) on his pretty face. People used to try and highlight whatever beauty Brendon held, but they should have paid more attention to Ryan. Sure, Brendon was pretty, but Ryan had beauty, substance. Secrets, mystery. Brendon was attracted to it, just like all the fans were, the dark, tortured past. He wanted to fix Ryan, to kiss away his problems and make him whole.

But the thing is, no one can make Ryan Ross whole, because he doesn't want to be whole. You can't bandage a wound that's constantly being picked at.

You can't make a drowning man swim.

Brendon doesn't remember the big things, the performances and the interviews that the fans pour and obsess over. He remembers the inconsequential things, the things like the way Ryan would place a hand on the small of his back. The sweet taste of Ryan's skin. The golden glow of a porch light, shining down on the two of them, sharing a cigarette. Brendon always preferred Ryan when he tasted like tobacco.

At least then he wouldn't taste like something more deadly.

Dilated pupils were Ryan's little black dress. Toward the end, he sported the look a lot more. So did Brendon, for that matter. They preferred drugs to communication, too scared to prod at something that was so clearly dying.

Because it was dying, slowly. Neither boy wanted to admit it, in fact, they'd dance around it, covering any future plans with silk and lace, hoping to make it pretty, setting it aside.

All they were doing was preparing a funeral shroud.

Brendon remembers the last time they kissed. It was at a wedding, of all things. It was funny, really: a funeral of a sort was brewing, and they were at a place for new beginnings. Brendon was sober. Ryan was not. Brendon was dressed appropriately, in a crisp shirt and pressed pants. Ryan was not, choosing to wear a wrinkled paisley shirt, stained with beer and what might have been come stains.

He was a wreck, a beautiful one, but even the beauty was fading, replaced with skin that was stretched too far across bone, and vacant eyes. Ryan used to have the prettiest eyes. Brendon would gaze into them, sometimes. They were always closed off, blocking away any hint of vulnerability. But even those eyes had life in them. These ones, not so much. Lifeless, dead. It scared Brendon, made him fear for Ryan, but even more for himself. Time was running out.

Days after, the band split.

Brendon shakes his head, biting his lip. He doesn't like to dwell in the past.

But he's gone too far now to stop. He winces as he picks up a photo, biting his lip.

The moon bred new Atlantic life tonight.  
The salt burned you right out of my eyes.

Salt water, and chapped lips. The sky was so dark it was purplish that night. Greta was topless, her hair fluttering in the weak, warm breeze. Other friends and band members were laughing, split up into smaller groups. Brendon and Ryan were out in the ocean. The water was icy, and Brendon was shivering. Arms swallowed him up, traced unfamiliar patterns on his stomach. Kisses were pressed behind his jaw, in the spot Ryan adored, and words were murmured quietly into his ears.

Ryan was sober that night, painfully so. He stared at Brendon so vulnerably that night, a terrible silence falling between them, the climax to a blissful tragedy.

And then they went to a hotel. Ryan made love to Brendon, slow and sweet, and Brendon fell apart in his arms, tears pouring down his face. He didn't know why, at the time.

He does now.

Photos were snapped at the time, and Brendon is holding his personal favorite. Ryan is standing, his back to the camera, staring at the moon, hanging silvery and fragile in the sky. Brendon? Brendon is staring at him, gaze consuming and vulnerable.

This is why I do it, Ryan wrote.

More like this is why I did it.

That was the night they fell apart. Oh, it was beautiful and so perfect, at the time. But it's the night Ryan realized, Brendon thinks. And that's when he started to pull away, because men like Ryan? They love the poetic sadness, the loneliness. They are not meant for relationships, for stability, for happiness. They're meant for the drama, no, not even that. They're meant to live in the moment. They aren't there to stay.

Men like Ryan Ross are smoke, will slip through your fingers and leave your eyes stinging.

Brendon sighs heavily, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear. His jaw clenches as he pulls out the final photo in the box, a washed out Polaroid. It's not a happy one. Brendon and Ryan's eyes are both red, and they are naked, swathed in bed sheets. The night before they all sat down, before the split.

Brendon remembers, because of course he does. He remembers, much as he would prefer to forget. They fucked that night. Not love-making. Not even sex. They were animals that night, fucking like bunnies, drunk as skunks. Brendon was meek as a lamb, quiet, still, letting his partner do the work. Ryan was as fierce as a lion, but as fragile as a dove. Animals. They didn't kiss that night. Not once.

And then they both wept like willows. It was the first and only time Brendon wanted to really leave the fame behind, and run away. But that would never happen. Where can you go when everyone knows your name?

Besides, as Ryan so quietly sang in that toneless tune, he didn't love Brendon.

He was just passing the time.

And Brendon did love him, because Ryan knew how to lie. And he adored Ryan, because as hard as Ryan tried, as crazy as he acted, he wasn't out of his mind. He was a man. He was fearful, lazy, and pathetic. And still, Brendon loved.

Oh, how he loved.

The split tore me apart, Brendon thinks, taking a swig of his drink. Is this number six? Seven? Who cares? Brendon is just whiling away the hours, and this point. Despite his success, he is alone in this bed, this house, and this head (sound familiar)?

Sarah's Smile didn't save him, he isn't Ready To Go, and it was Always Ryan.

But the worst part?

Brendon would go back to Ryan, if the other desired.

But Ryan doesn't.

So here he lays, on a bed, in a gorgeous mansion in Los Angeles, alone.

Across town, in an elaborate home complete with a giant garage and moat, Ryan Ross lays in a giant four poster bed.

But unlike Brendon

he's

sleeping

s o u n d l y.

~~~

You don't have to love me, you already did.  
At least enough to keep me smiling from South Carolina to Virginia.

It's for lovers, (or just friends).   
This is why I do it.

~Ryan Ross, June 2006


End file.
